Procrastinate

I have only three hundred more words to write on my first of three term papers. As I sat at the dining room table today, I saw the end in sight. Yet, it is a rough and tumble three hundred to still complete. There is not much more I can say on Philosophy from a Feminist perspective. So far, I’ve purchased two pair of jeans from Amazon, Googled “Pedant T-shirts/floppy gym shorts,”  changed the bed linens, completed three loads of laundry, Oh…. and wrote this blog post. So sue me if it goes astray. 

If I don’t complete the three hundred words, I will be forced to canceled a lunch plan I had with a very sexy boy. So…. really, I should be exploring Feminist Philosophy…..

…I really like the Levi jeans that have the longer back pockets. So, I bought some pairs. On line. Guess I see how they fit when they arrive, I am concerned for the D-bag factor. Or the "over forty year old attempting to dress like a twenty-five year old" because that could easily be the case. Welcome, one an all to StevieB's midlife crisis. 

Oh, I got new Pumas. I have really stopped counting how many pairs of running shoes I own. I do know that I’m out of closet space and I now need to keep Pumas in my oven. 

Alright, back to writing…. wish me luck. 

Oscar Pistorius: Hero Worship

My obsessions are numerous and bizarre. Like seeing a porn star wear Pumas; then buying Pumas every six months for three years. Or seeing the marks on older cars windshields where the wiper blades have worn a pattern, so hand washing my windshield every day for four years. Or, recently really liking guys in their twenties due to my fear and loathing of growing old. Wait, that’s neurosis and narcissism.  Completely different. 

Lately, while the world is obsessed with the fait of Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 and the amazing media coverage and strange conspiracy theories, my obsession gene is turned elsewhere. My dear Oscar. South African sprint runner, Oscar Pistorius. Now, I don’t like the word “obsession” in this case, it seems dirty somehow. It’s more like a deep unending love that is only one-way and will never be responded to or returned. 

While watching the track and field portion of the 2012 Olympics, I watched with the world as Oscar Pistorius, a South African sprint runner struggled to participate in the men’s 400 metres sprint.  Oscar Pistorius competed in the London Summer Olympics as the first double leg amputee. 

After that race I became obsessed with this amazing man’s struggle to overcome obstacles.  When I got lazy about running, or really any perceived obstacle I used Oscar for motivation. Tired and not wanting to drive to the gym, I would think of Oscar the amazing athlete.

My hero even wished my a happy Birthday via Twitter:

My hero got me through some tough times. One day I heard my heroes name on television.  “Oscar Pistorius accused of premeditated murder of girlfriend by South Africa prosecutors.”

The continuing court case stuns me with every news cast. The court is opening to the world his complicated life. Texts from the slain Reeva Steenkamp show the anger and control issues that Oscar portrayed. One of a jealous and cruel boyfriend. Other news casts focus on Oscar vomiting in the courtroom and physical distress in the retelling of his beloved Reeva’s injuries. Spending emotional days on stand crying repeatedly, apologizing to Steenkamp’s family. Every day in court he is emotionally and physically exhausted. Even with my skewed lust filled eyes, the defense of why he shot through a bathroom door, killing Reeva, simply falls down. 

I obsessively watch any report I can find. 

There is a philosophy that your heroes will disappoint you.  That is true. In this world, if you obsess too much, you just might make immortals out of mortals. 

Oscar Pistorius

Spring Snow

Last night I barged into the local Subway sandwich shop as they attempted to close. The heavy rain had begun to switch over to snow. The type of heavy wet snowfall we get in Colorado, right as winter gives up the ghost and lets Spring move in and set up shop. 

I entered the Subway to pick up dinner.  My eating habits haven't changed since they were established as a twenty five year old bachelor. Around nine o'clock, when I head for home from wherever I happen to be, I typically stop at some fast-food joint to pick up fuel.  Fuel that is balanced on my chest, and to be administered as I stretch out in the middle of the bed like a swastika. In my twenties, I would read a book as I pulled French fries out of my chest cleavage, now it's my iPad, usually trolling Scruff. 

Last night was typical. A twelve inch sub of some sort, and a six inch for breakfast the next day. A bachelor has to plan head, I would think. 

Last night, I ate my sub one handed as my iPad was held in the other. Then, I ate the other sandwich after midnight as I sat watching the heavy wet snowfall hit my window. Spring will be here soon enough.